Page 37 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

“We said—”

“I know what we said.” I don't move. “I'm just stealing crackers.”

She looks at me how she looks at things she doesn't entirely trust. Which, fair. I never claimed to be entirely trustworthy.

“How's the Mercer project?” I ask, giving her the out.

She takes it. “Fine. Boring. The client is making annoying requests. He wants to redo their entire brand in Comic Sans.”

“And you're telling them no.”

“I'm telling them gently.” The corner of her mouth moves. Almost the real version. “With examples.”

There she is. She knows I like that version best, which is probably why she keeps it on a short leash around me.

“I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

“Mm.” I tilt my head and take her in slowly. A look that's just this side of inappropriate, and we both know it. “Funny thing about that.”

“Don't.”

“You look pretty good for someone who's been sick a lot lately.”

She blinks. Then, despite herself: “Did you just compliment me to prove a point?”

“I compliment you constantly. You just usually change the subject before it lands.”

“Liam—”

“I'm serious.” I hold her gaze, easy, unhurried. “You look good, Riley. You always look good. It's genuinely inconvenient.”

Something flickers across her face—the armor slipping for exactly one second before she pulls it back up. She reaches for her water glass, takes a long sip, and sets it down with the particular precision of someone buying time.

“We're not doing this,” she says.

“Doing what?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “We agreed.”

“We agreed on a lot of things.” I lean back, arms crossed. “Doesn't mean it's not true. You look good. Also, you're clearly not fine. Both things can be real at the same time.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks back at her water—and the set of her jaw tells me she's holding something back.

Living together teaches you things about people they don’t have to share.

I take out the recycling an hour later—Ethan asked, I said sure—and I've got the bag tied at the top, halfway to the door, when a shape through the plastic stops me.

Angular. About the size of a small box.

I set the bag back down.

Untie it.

Not sure why. Some instinct that came back from two tours intact when many others didn’t.

Something is wrong. My grip tightens on the plastic bag.

I've never been good at walking away from that.